


Sweetest On Your Tongue

by Nightmist



Series: Aymeric/Estinien Ship Week 2020 [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftercare, Bottom Estinien Wyrmblood, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Estimeric Week (Final Fantasy XIV), Licking, M/M, Mild BDSM, NSFW, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Rough Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: For Estimeric Week 2020, prompt "Food".Shameless smuttiness; Aymeric spills syrup on himself doctoring his tea, and Estinien helps him to get cleaner.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: Aymeric/Estinien Ship Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871575
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47
Collections: Estimeric Week 2020





	Sweetest On Your Tongue

Outside the window, what might once have been a summer storm howls and wails, tossing flakes of white against the glass and building them up in drifts across the casement. Full glad that Estinien managed to sneak in before the weather turned, Aymeric pours tea. He does not bother to do anything to sweeten the other man's cup as he passes it over. Even with the heat of the fireplace, tiny melted snowflakes cling in the dragoon's long hair, now looking like diamonds scattered across a silver river. Shed of his usual armor, Estinien seems softer, all his sharp edges exchanged for smooth cloth-shrouded planes. 

It is only when he pours too much syrup into his own cup and it slops over the edge, spilling sticky liquid amber over his skin that he realizes he was staring at his companion instead of at what he was doing. Hissing in a quiet breath instead of letting out the curse that he knows Estinien would, Aymeric pulls his hand away and stands, meaning to grab a handkerchief to wipe his hand clean. His motion is arrested instead by Estinien's hand landing on his arm and pulling him closer. 

Uncertain, his gaze flicks up to the dragoon's face. The instant he meets the stormy darkness of those eyes, pupils a little too wide, something bestial prowling in the depths, a second pit of fire begins to build itself low in his gut. The flames creep higher as Estinien's eyes remain locked with his as he draws the dirtied hand closer, until lips close around Aymeric's fingers, sucking firmly as his tongue starts to wash away the traceries of syrup. Each time he finishes with one digit, he simply moves on to the next, not bothering to care if there is actually any syrup there to clean. 

Breath starting to come faster and shallower to his lungs and with a soft groan, Aymeric uses his free hand to weave into the thick strands of Estinien's hair, tangling in silver and using it to pull him even closer. Smile wolfish as he drops the last finger, the man's tongue starts to chase along the contours of the back of his hand, seeking out the final droplets. After taking a second to swallow heavily and lick his lips, the Lord Commander tightens his grip, voice husky. "You, my love, are making promises. Are you intending to keep them?"

It is meant as a challenge, because he knows Estinien will take it as one. And Estinien never backs down from a challenge, after all. Sure enough, the wild creature within the dragoon's eyes practically roars back as the man himself shifts his grip, lunging to drag Aymeric's body closer, fingers scrambling for his belt. His own smile no doubt has more than a little of the feral in it as well as he buries his cleaned hand into the dragoon's hair as well, cupping the back of that head possessively as Estinien pulls his belt loose, tossing it aside carelessly, then unlaces pants and smalls.

Judging by that eager enthusiasm, Aymeric is sure that thoughts of what he is about to do have been consuming the silver-haired man for a while. Who would he be if he denied his beloved what he has been hungered for? Certainly, the cruelty to do so has never been in his nature. One of Estinien's hands curls over his hip, while the other wraps around the thick width of the noble's shaft, sliding in long, slow, appreciative strokes even as he eases Aymeric fully free of his clothing. With an eager rumble, lips close around the head of his prick. The warmth of being curled near the fire on a chilly night has _nothing_ on the heat of Estinien's mouth and it takes a not insignificant amount of Aymeric's prodigious self-control not to immediately thrust forward, but to be gentle and patient.

In the interest of maintaining that control, he tries to focus on the feel of his fingers tracing over Estinien's scalp, instead of the feeling of Estinien's tongue tracing the flared ridge of his cockhead, then drawing back to the very tip, repeated again and again. It's a tease and meant to be; when dark eyes meet his through a tangle of snowdrift strands, they're gleaming and smug. It's enough to ease any possible guilt about curling so he can dig nails into that scalp, putting firm pressure at the back of the dragoon's head to let him press his shaft deeper into the clasp of wet heat. Estinien swallows around him, tongue swirling, and with infinite care, Aymeric grants himself permission to start moving his hips.

He wants more; he knows Estinien wants him to take more. Which is part of the satisfaction in resisting doing so as long as possible, limiting himself to shallow rocks that grind the tip of his hardness against the other man's tongue, allowing tension to wind gradually ever tighter in the hollows of his loins. He knows the dragoon is growing impatient in his lust as the hand curled around him clasps tighter, almost painful, and he tries to push forward more, guide Aymeric into his throat. Instead, the knight tightens his grip on all that long hair, twining it more firmly around his fingers and preventing the motion. "Patience, my love, no matter how much you hunger for me to use you."

True to form, Estinien growls in frustration at even this slight denial, letting his teeth scrape subtly for a moment, almost but not quite sharp. Gaze narrowing, Aymeric keeps his grip tight and takes a full step back, withdrawing from the dragoon's mouth. (And trying _not_ to let his gaze linger in fascination on the strand of saliva linking those reddened lips and his cock.) Estinien growls again, louder, biting off a curse, and strains against his grip, although with far less than his true strength.

Threading his voice with gentle chastisement, Aymeric warns, "If you aren't going to play nice, you'll have to actually ask for what you want." Deep, wild eyes search his face, pupils already swollen to mostly swallow the irises, Estinien's nostrils flaring as he huffs out a breath in frustration.

Aymeric waits.

Seconds tick by, but no more than a handful before the dragoon accepts defeat, swallowing hard before he speaks, eyes dropping to the hard cock in front of him that he's about to functionally beg for, a faint haze of heat flooding into his cheeks. "Fuck my face, my Lord." _Ah_ , now if that is not Estinien to the core, blunt and curt even when asking for something he wants — no, _needs_. Aymeric may not know what happened earlier that made the dragoon feel the necessity of tossing off the shackles of responsibility and power for a few hours, but he is happy to oblige. 

Stepping back in again, the commander does not bother to swallow his pleasured groan as Estinien immediately wraps lips back around his cock. "As you wish, my love. Show me how you need me..." The dragoon all but hums in satisfaction, quick to lean and press in closer, that hand at Aymeric's hip tightening in greedy anticipation even as the other one presses flat against his belly at the base of his cock. It might appear like control, but with his hands tightly fisted in silver, it's a simple matter to tip Estinien's head, drag him all the way near, press the tip of his hardness to the opening of the other man's throat, then when he swallows in anticipation, pushing further into clutching tightness.

For a few breaths, he holds still, until clutching fingers start to become clawed with strain, then Aymeric draws his hips back, waits for the accompanying gasp and rush of air around him before he starts to settle into a rhythm. "Fury, Estinien, if only you knew how seeing you like this affects me…" Long, slow strokes, from mouth to throat and back again, giving open voice to his own low moans and ragged grunts in contrast to the fainter, muffled sounds of Estinien's own pleasure at the act of servicing him. The dragoon's body is almost soft as he leans in, the powerful muscles of shoulders and chest relaxed, soothed even as they rest against Aymeric's thighs in the deepest presses.

As the urge to increases his speed becomes overwhelming, the hand on his belly slips away, then he feels a different tension draw through Estinien's form. Glancing down, he tracks the movements as that wandering hand shoves the dragoon's pants out of the way, exposing him for his own grasping touch, stroking hard and fast while his thumb teases over the head in time with Aymeric's thrusts into his throat. "So needy, aren't you?" Something about that raw desire, the way Estinien's indulgence of his own lust is always tied back to Aymeric, pierces his heart in a way that little else does, the knowledge of the secret nature only he is privy to. The remnants of control shatter, other than the steel struts of his soul that make sure that while he may be rough (and oh, he knows he is being so, Estinien's face reddened with the struggle to breathe around the prick filling his mouth and throat, the way strain pulls sweat to his face as he fervently works his own shaft), he will never allow himself to truly harm his beloved.

Hands locked tightly in starlit silk to ensure his passage is unimpeded, Aymeric drives forward, again and again, letting himself test the depths of Estinien's throat and the power of his gag reflex. His shoulders hunch, drawn tight as everything in him grows tense in anticipation, body singing with pleasure and adoration. His world narrows to nothing but heat and pressure and power, the certainty of Estinien's devotion to him, the sheer possessive joy of the knowledge he is the only one gifted to see this, to _feel_ it — 

The world flashes white hot and he goes with it, almost convulsing as he spills his pleasure down his lover's throat in unbridled splashes, distantly aware of the determined swallowing around him, trying to claim every drop. Aymeric loosens his grip, hands trembling in the aftermath of pleasure, gaze still fuzzed as Estinien lets himself slump back against the back of the sofa, tongue lewdly circling his lips to track down any missed alkalinity as his hand moves in wild erratic gesture, finally wringing his own peak with a loud groan. Panting, the motions slow, and for a time, they just breathe together, recovering.

Estinien stirs first, murmuring a brief, exhausted curse from a raw throat. "Fuck. I needed that, but I should have let you get the damn napkin first." He drags his shirt off, cleaning his hand and the rest of himself with it, to Aymeric's brief exasperation before he snatches it away after a moment.

"And I could have gotten you one now, had you been patient." It's meant as a scolding, but the cheeky grin he gets in return makes it all too clear that he's failed to hide the deep affection that still swells his chest. Sighing in a warm outward rush, Aymeric reorders his clothing, briefly grateful that Estinien's _thorough enthusiasm_ has left him far cleaner, and he goes to toss the soiled garment into a hamper. At his return, the dragoon hands him his forgotten cup of tea, a wicked gleam to his eyes.

"I made sure to clean the cup the same way too so you can drink it safely without getting all sticky again." Once again, Aymeric cannot do anything but sigh and settle himself to sit at his lover's side, accepting that there is ever little to be done with Estinien's idea of manners. Besides, as he lifts the cup to finally drink, not caring if it's somewhat tepid now, a warm body presses to his arm and shoulder first, then shifts down til Estinien can curl on his side, head pillowed on one of Aymeric's thighs.

Determined to at least finish his cup of tea before sleep, Aymeric relaxes as well, beverage in one hand, the other idly carding through the wild web of silver strands arrayed over his lap, working loose the tangles left by his earlier harsh grip. By the time his cup has emptied (even the puddle of excess birch syrup left at the bottom, which he savors more than he would dare if being watched), the sound of quiet snoring rises from Estinien. With great care, the cup is set aside, and Aymeric carefully shifts until he can heft the dragoon's weary form in his arms, carrying him to the bed with no more than a few sleepy, half-aware murmurs. Settled in against the sheets, the other man promptly goes limp and relaxed again, surrounded by familiar scents and sensations. Perhaps he is a little fussier himself, but the knight does take the time to change into a proper set of pajamas before he curls himself into the bed as well. Lifting one arm to wrap a waist, Aymeric feels the familiar jolt of joy that becomes almost painful in its clarity, like the sun shining through a prism, when even in his sleep, Estinien slips nearer, nuzzling against his shoulder before he fully sinks down into dreams. Breaths come closer and easier, and Aymeric lets himself be drawn under as well, into rest and nearness and security of the heart.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, consider [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) if you enjoy reading or writing FFXIV fic or want to find me to scream at me about something.


End file.
